The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  Herr Fischer was sitting at his map table, rehearsing in his head what he might better have said during his infuriating encounter with Manners that morning. His thoughts about that ‘damned Honourable’ were as black as the contents of the big mug of coffee, which he was stirring with his spoon.

  He had hardly slept the night before. He had fretted through the day over the nonarrival of the train from Tientsin. At two in the morning he had given up his vigil, and staggered to his tent. He had taken off his boots and changed into his red striped nightgown and cap, but hardly had his snores begun to flutter his whiskers or flicker the candle on the side table than he was being shaken awake again by the whistle of the locomotive and the hiss of steam as it settled into the sidings. He checked his watch: fifteen hours and twenty-two minutes late.

  He had found the engineer Bowers incoherent with exhaustion. His explanation of the delay had consisted of a confused mutter about obstacles on the line and crowds of angry peasants throwing stones. There had been no use in interrogating the dour, bearded fellow in this state so Fischer had sent him straight to his quarters where he was still sleeping. He had been impressed, however, by the professionalism of the man. Despite his tiredness, Bowers had spent another twenty minutes shunting the engine and guard’s van round the loop, repositioning them at opposite ends of the train, so that when it left the next day on its return to Tientsin the engine would be proudly pulling from the front in a manner that would make the punctilious Herr Fischer proud.

  There had been few passengers on the train. The Chinese on board had gathered their bundles and disappeared into the night. The American missionary, Burton Fielding, the only passenger in first-class, had also been uncommunicative, and had left quickly for the Airtons’ in the mule cart that had been waiting for him all the previous day.

  Fischer and Charlie had inspected the engine and carriages in the lantern-light, locking the doors of the carriages, securing the brake in the van, uncoupling the engine before banking the fire in the firebox. The pale orange of pre-dawn was already illuminating the sky before they had finished their various duties.

  It was while he was making his way back to his quarters for a shave and a wash that he saw Manners coming out of his tent, followed by a European boy with a tousled head and a Chinese woman dressed in an elegant blue gown. Herr Fischer was not a stupid man, and he prided himself on his keen powers of observation and analysis, the indispensable attributes of a senior engineer. And he was also objective enough, he believed, to look facts squarely in the face. A single glance was enough to assess the situation, and closer examination of the detail merely reinforced his hypothesis. The conclusive evidence was provided by the paint on the woman’s face and her fully combed headdress, tinkling with ornaments. Her profession could not have been clearer if she had held up a sign with her portrait on it. And there were even traces of eye makeup on the boy, who was wearing embroidered silk pyjamas! He had wondered for a moment how a foreign boy of this persuasion could have got to Shishan. Then he dimly recalled that Charlie had once told him of the people-smuggling business that went on in Shanghai and in the south of China. Was there any wickedness, however improbable or ingenious, of which Manners was not capable? Herr Fischer composed his features into what he hoped was the magisterial expression of a Cato or Cicero. His shoulders stiffened as he prepared his stern and sad rebuke—but before he had a chance to speak, Manners, far from showing any guilt or remorse or discomfort at being found out, merely raised his hat.

  ‘Morning, Fischer,’ he had greeted him brazenly. ‘Good day for a ride, don’t you think? I see the train’s come in. That’s good. I’ve some passengers for you.’

  The tower of dignified oration that Fischer had been constructing tumbled, and what emerged was a disconnected rockslide of recrimination and complaint. How dare Mr Manners take that impudent tone? Had he no shame? Did Mr Manners not care about his family name? He demanded an explanation of this latest outrage. He knew that the Englishman was debauched, but never before had he dared to bring his fancy women to the railway camp. Not to mention this painted boy, this—Ganymede! It was clear that the three of them had spent the night together in the tent in contravention of morality, civilised behaviour, and the rules of the railway company. Even Manners could not deny this. Herr Fischer had discovered him in flagrante delicto …

  ‘You do have a prurient imagination,’ the man had replied, with a hateful coolness. ‘If you were to observe a little more closely you would notice that there are two camp beds on the ground outside the tent. Hiram spent the night in one, and I in the other. Very peacefully, I might add. I think that you owe our guests an apology, old boy.’

  And then he had insolently proceeded to introduce the creatures—as formally as if they had all been at a cocktail reception—as his friends, Miss Fan Yimei, who was preparing for a journey to Tientsin, and Master Hiram (he did not give a surname), her companion.

  ‘I had intended to explain it all to you at a more appropriate time,’ he had continued, unabashed by the scowl of disapproval on Herr Fischer’s face. ‘I am certain that when you understand the circumstances you will appreciate that discretion is involved, and you will be as eager as I am to help.’

  ‘Discretion, Mr Manners?’ In his anger Herr Fischer had attempted a heavy irony. ‘For your paramours? You are asking me to provide a private compartment on the train for their disportings perhaps? With curtains and a double bunk?’

  ‘I am not discussing ticketing arrangements. In fact, I don’t think it’s the time or place to be talking about this at all. You appear a little tired, Herr Fischer, and I promised my friends that I would take them riding. I’ll call on you later in the day, when you are calmer.’

  At which point Herr Fischer had lost his temper completely. ‘Yes, I will talk to you later in the day, Mr Honourable Manners,’ he had shouted. ‘You have gone far enough. It is not only these disreputable people whom you have brought to our railway. You have from the moment you have arrived my authority flouted, and treated the corporation which employs you with contempt. And, what is more, you have done no work. You are—’ His mind whirled to think of a suitable word to describe his disdain. ‘You are a passenger here, Mr Manners. I am writing to the board once and for all. You are discharged, Mr Manners. I discharge you, do you hear me? Now and here!’

  ‘Then you’ll have no objection if I take my friends for a ride?’ The man had smiled at him. And sauntered past him in the direction of the stables, his two companions glancing with nervous curiosity at him as they sidled past.

  Well, he would sack Manners, Fischer decided, as he stirred his coffee. He did not care what authority was protecting him. He would take the matter to the highest levels. Even if the consequence was his own resignation. It was intolerable! The man was his subordinate yet he had no idea what he got up to during his long absences in town. He was certain that whatever Manners was discussing with the Mandarin was of no benefit to the railway. He was dubious that such a relationship even existed; he rather suspected that Manners wasted his whole time in that infamous bordello where he had once had the temerity to take Charlie, poor fellow.

  Why the railway board had sent Manners to Shishan in the first place was beyond his understanding. He suspected that there was something Oriental behind it all, favours being exchanged or some other typical intrigue. Whatever the reason, it was damnable that he, Fischer, had been used, however passively, in these machinations. He, Gott sei Dank, was a simple engineer, with a set task, a budget and a timetable to complete. He would do his duty as a professional—and no more. ‘From now on, no more,’ he said to himself. ‘I am no Junker Honourable—but I know my duty, and I have my honour too.’

  He took a big sip of coffee and scalded his tongue. This did nothing for his temper, so when Charlie burst into the tent, he shouted at him uncharacteristically to get out, and if he had to come in again, to knock first like a civilised human being.

  Charlie ignored him. His face showed none of
its usual irony or humour. The staring eyes and twitching lips revealed a man who was badly scared. His voice was calm, however: he was obviously calling on all his reserves of strength and self-control. ‘You are needed now, Herr Fischer. The workers—we have a strike on our hands, and I cannot control it.’

  This brought Herr Fischer immediately to his feet, all thoughts of Manners forgotten in the emergency. ‘What are they doing now?’ he asked briskly.

  ‘Some are stoning the train. Others are pulling up the rails that lead to the bridge.’

  ‘Better in that direction than the line to the tunnel and Tientsin. Who is leading them?’

  ‘The foreman, Zhang Haobin.’

  ‘Lao Zhang? But he’s not a troublemaker.’

  He started for the door. Then, reconsidering, he returned to his desk, pulled a revolver from a drawer and stuffed it into his belt. He gathered a hunting rifle and some cartridges from the rack by the wall. ‘Do you use these?’ he grunted at Charlie. The Chinese shook his head, his expression of distaste. ‘Then carry them to Mr Bowers’s tent. Wake him if he is sleeping and tell him to join me immediately. I wait for you here. Be quick now.’

  Charlie ran on his errand. Herr Fischer looked carefully round the tent. He swept up some papers and knelt by the Chubb, turned the combination to open the big metal safe. He stuffed the papers inside, then pulled out a wad of American dollar bills, which he put into his pocket. As an afterthought he reached for the black book in which he meticulously kept the accounts and, with some tearing of the lining, squeezed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He locked the safe, grabbed another rifle and cartridge case from the rack, and walked, with a deliberate step, to the door.

  It was the silence that struck him as ominous. There were none of the ordinary sounds of the camp. From his commanding position he could look down on to the track and the bridge. A crowd of coolies and earth-carriers were milling about, without any particular purpose that he could identify. Then he observed that the majority of them were watching some of his railway workers under the direction of Zhang Haobin heaving with iron bars at the rails and the sleepers. There was the clear tinkle of metal against metal, which carried over the still morning air, but otherwise no sound—not even a shout. Certainly not the roar of a mob of angry workers, calling out their grievances and demands. The funnel and steam dome of the engine were visible behind the tents to his right, and from that direction he also heard a clattering of stones on metal—but, again, no human voices raised in anger.

  Puzzled, he occupied himself by loading his revolver and his rifle. After a few minutes Charlie returned with Bowers, looking incongruously formal in his blue, brass-buttoned jacket, and high-peaked cap. The rifle slung over his shoulder, his upright bearing, the black beard and solemn face reminded Herr Fischer of a police constable. He wished that he had one or two real policemen at his command.

  ‘Good man, Bowers. You slept well?’

  ‘Adequately, sir,’ answered the sombre fellow.

  ‘Then you are ready to join me for a little conversation with these hooligans here?’

  ‘I’ll be happy enough if we can prevent them from damaging my engine.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Herr Fischer. ‘We take a stroll together, ja? Come on, Charlie, lead the way.’

  The three moved slowly down the hill, Charlie glancing nervously from side to side.

  ‘There is nobody who is with us?’ Fischer asked Charlie quietly.

  ‘Not this time. They’re all in on it, or intimidated into it.’

  ‘I see. And who is doing the intimidation?’

  ‘Can’t tell. In the past when we had trouble I was able to speak to them. At least hear what they had to say. This time they stoned me when I got near.’

  They had reached the outskirts of the crowd, which parted to let the armed men through. As he looked at the faces lining their path Herr Fischer detected few signs of outright hostility. There were sneers and frowns and whispers; some of the younger workers, muscled torsos stripped proudly to the waist, tensed and squared their shoulders threateningly, but these were the minority. Most of the weatherbeaten faces looked at them blankly, some sullenly but more with open curiosity. There were several smiles, and the occasional nod of recognition. Fischer found himself nodding back to one or two of the veterans, who beamed at him.

  Most curious, he thought. It was patently a strike, and that was worrying, especially if the whole workforce was involved—but he did not feel particularly threatened personally. There was an atmosphere of excitement, but none of the bitterness in the air that he normally associated with strikes. He was conscious, however, of the disparity of numbers should the situation deteriorate.

  ‘Mr Bowers’s men—the engineers and stewards who came with the train last night—where are they?’ he asked Charlie.

  ‘They’re huddled in their tent. Wouldn’t come out even when Mr Bowers threatened them.’

  ‘Bowers? This is true?’

  ‘Aye,’ was the short answer.

  ‘Then, gentlemen, it appears that we are on our own.’ He spoke cheerfully, but he was conscious of a fluttering in his belly, and silently ran through the prayers he knew, wondering which would be most appropriate in these circumstances.

  The last of the faces moved aside to let them pass, and they found themselves confronting the foreman, a grey-queued, stubble-headed man with lined, honest features and a habitually melancholy frown. As the three stepped up the bank to the rails, the workers bent on destruction froze with their crowbars in midair, and gazed questioningly at Zhang Haobin.

  ‘All right, lads,’ the foreman said sadly. ‘Rest for a spell.’ He faced Herr Fischer, waiting patiently for the German to address him.

  ‘Mr Zhang,’ started Herr Fischer politely. ‘We are interrupting your work.’ Charlie translated.

  ‘It’s no matter,’ muttered Zhang.

  ‘May I ask, what are your reasons for destroying our fine railway? You, among others, have worked on it with hardship and pride for many years.’

  Zhang hung his head gloomily, but when he looked up it was directly into Herr Fischer’s eyes. He muttered the first sentence sullenly, then gathered confidence and projected his voice so that the workers around him could also hear.

  ‘He says that it is true they worked hard, but that was before they knew they had been deceived and that it was a mistake to build this line for foreigners and traitors,’ translated Charlie. He spoke coldly. Anger had driven away his nervousness, and there was a red spot on each cheek. ‘He says that he and his men have no quarrel with you, Mr Fischer, who have been fair with them. Nor with Mr Bowers. But they are under instructions from the new powers—as he calls them, I do not know to whom he refers—that foreign magic must be destroyed. So he is attacking the railway line.’

  ‘Tell him that I find his arguments interesting, but that I am not aware of a new government in China or a change of policy in the railway board. Tell him also that I am surprised that he speaks of the railway in such a superstitious manner.’

  Zhang listened carefully to Charlie’s translation, and calmly gave his reply. Whatever it was angered Charlie who snapped something back at him. The workers near Zhang began to murmur, but Zhang raised his arms in the air to quieten them. When he spoke again, his words were hard and deliberate, and what he said seemed to infuriate Charlie even more—but Herr Fischer touched his arm gently. ‘Just interpret for me, Charlie. There’s a good fellow.’

  ‘This insolent man spoke disrespectfully of the railway board and accused His Excellency the Minister Li Hung-chang of being a traitor to the Dragon Throne. I told him that if there are any traitors they are turtle’s eggs like himself and those who are sabotaging the reconstruction of our country.’

  ‘That was brave of you, Charlie, but in the present circumstances I suggest we make our remarks more moderate. What else did he say?’

  ‘He says that he is working under the orders of the yamen itself. I know that is a lie. He and his
men have been listening to the ignorant peasants who seek to throw back our new civilisation and destroy all that is good in our country.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Charlie, please keep that opinion to yourself and maintain a strictly interpretative role. Tell Mr Zhang that I hear him, but that as the director of this railway section I need to see any new orders in writing. And tell him that if such orders have been delivered to the Mandarin, we should wait until they are produced before we embark on any action we may later regret. Tell him that no great damage has been done yet, no harm done, I repeat, and that I respectfully request that he gives orders to his men to desist from their present work until the situation is clarified. That is reasonable, do you not think, ja?’

  Rather grudgingly, Charlie translated, although his tone still appeared hostile to Herr Fischer’s ears. Zhang Haobin, however, nodded at each of Herr Fischer’s points, then turned to consult some of the other workers around him. A lively debate ensued.

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘It’s all treason,’ sneered Charlie. ‘They’re talking about the Boxers—the Harmonious Fists. It appears there was some sort of visitation in their camp last night. Apparently it is the gods telling them to do this,’ he said sarcastically. He listened as Zhang, having reached some sort of consensus of opinion with his men, spoke again. ‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘Sheer superstition. They claim that they have orders from a higher authority even than the temporal powers. Gods came down to talk to them, would you believe, and who can disobey the orders of the gods? Even so he claims that the yamen is in full agreement with these heavenly instructions. One of these acrobats-turned-gods apparently produced a memorial with the Mandarin’s seal on it. It is comical, is it not?’

  ‘So are we to wait until this memorial is produced?’

  ‘No, the orders of the gods are good enough for them. I will ask them which god is greater than our Emperor on the Dragon Throne, who is in daily communication with the Jade Emperor in Heaven. And remind them that to disobey him is treason.’